


One cannot fly into flying

by cellardoor



Category: Batgirl (Comic), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-07-20
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellardoor/pseuds/cellardoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Batgirl reboot. She trains. She trains until everything hurts and the sight of her still too-skinny legs shaking pathetically drives her to tears and frustration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One cannot fly into flying

**Author's Note:**

> DCnU compliant, but a lot of pre-DCnU feels probably very apparent! I've been increasingly interested in Babs' physical recovery, hence this ficlet.

She hates it in the hospital. She hates the gowns, she hates the physical therapy pools, she hates the condescension. She takes three, shaky steps by herself, and they applaud enthusiastically. So, naturally, she scowls at them, rips the wristband off and runs right out the hospital in naught but the backless surgical gown. 

 

Or at least, she would. If she could.

 

Instead, she trips and stumbles on the underwater running machine and hates everything with the passion of someone who _knows_ they can do better than this.

 

Once she's home again, with her atrophied legs tucked away from sight, she hovers over the one name in her phonebook that she should call. Bruce trained her once, he could do it again. He'd be efficient. He'd be exacting. She should call him. Instead, she finds herself calling someone else entirely.

 

"Dick," she says, trying to sound nonchalant, trying to act as if it isn't weird she hasn't called him until now. "Hi."

"You _tease_!" he says, with feeling, "I've been waiting for you to invite me dancing ever since I heard the news!"

"Dream on, Boy Wonder," she quips, quick and easy, and the relief is so incredible, she's grinning like an idiot. Thank god he can't see her.

"To think I've been working on my salsa _especially._ "

"Well, I'm not quite salsa-ready yet," she says, picking at the edge of the table nervously with her free hand. "I was sort of hoping…"

"Hoping what?" A beat. "Babs, if there's anything I can help with…"

"I don't want to disrupt-"

"Hey. _Anything_." It's that kind of dangerous sincerity that made her pick up the damn phone in the first place. 

"Are you in Gotham long?" she asks. The knowledge that he'll make the answer 'yes' just for her should probably be overwhelming, but somehow, it never is.

 

They track down some ex-NASA astronaut training equipment, specifically designed for post-voyage muscle deterioration. Dick flashes his plastic and calls in some Wayne favours, vehemently shouting down any weak protests she wouldn't even bother voicing to Bruce. After all, if she thought she could do it on her own, she wouldn't have called him. 

 

So, she trains. She trains until everything hurts and the sight of her still too-skinny legs shaking pathetically drives her to tears and frustration, and she kicks the stupid machine. Too hard. She crumples to the floor and swears and hates everything, and Dick watches her patiently, as always. When she shoots him an indecipherable look, he kneels next to her, his expression sympathetic. _Fuck_ sympathy, she thinks, clenching her fists.

 

"It'll take a while," he says, softly, edging closer tentatively. "It'll get easier-"

"Don't pander to me, kid," she growls, and for one awkward moment the air is thick with sincerity and resentment and that fucking _quiet understanding_ she hates so very, very much, and then… then, Dick laughs, and it's as infectious as it ever was. He wipes the sweaty tendrils of hair from her face and kisses her on the forehead. She lets him pick her up and deposit her on the sofa with a grin and a promise that he'll be back in ten with pizza and _Star Trek,_ and for her to stay put. She stays put, for once, because pizza sounds good, _Star Trek_ sounds better, and the company is stellar. 

 

It gets better, it gets easier, and when she pops the champagne to celebrate one more little victory, Dick's expression is anything but "I told you so", and she loves him for it. There's a lot more pizza, and a lot more _Star Trek_ , but no more kisses on the forehead (which she tries her hardest not to care about.) He even claps politely when she finally backflips, and she realises, to her dismay, that she is going to miss this.

 

Of course, it can't go on forever, and to her relief, he backs off before she has to ask.

"I think," he says gently, "I'll leave you to it, ok?"

She nods, and there are too many things to say, too many things she can't even begin to articulate effectively, so she steps forwards, grabs the front of his shirt, and kisses him thoroughly. 

 

It's a kiss that says _thank you_ , it's a kiss that says _please understand that I need to do this alone_ , and it's a kiss that says _let's shelve this until I'm ready, ok?_

__

She especially hopes he picks up on the last one.


End file.
